


A Grain of Salt for Every Star

by Livia_LeRynn



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe - Aliens, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Furiosa is a dhampir, Gen, Immortal Max Rockatansky, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Joe is an alien vampire, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livia_LeRynn/pseuds/Livia_LeRynn
Summary: Halloween special! Now extended because Halloween never ends as long as you keep the spooky spirit in your heart.Three alien vampires warlords are exploiting Earth for its resources.  By night their undead War Boy terrorise the land.  By day their Imperators capture Bloodbags and Brides.  Today’s Bloodbag is different.Fury Road retold with a healthy dose of Dune and Vampire Hunter D sensibilities.  Only Fury Road characters.





	1. Chapter 1

Red blood, bright, hypnotic, and glorious flows through the clear tube. Furiosa can’t help but stare. It’s such a tiny thing, a single lifeline, the last stream in a dead and dusty world. It’s beautiful and electrifying. 

She retracts the tube into her blood gauge, and a red bead rises from the feral man’s skin in its wake. 

Her lips part, and her mouth, bone dry but moments before, waters. Just because she doesn’t need the blood the way the War Boys do doesn’t stop her from wanting it. The hunger is all consuming, like her stomach is eating itself from the inside out. 

Her crew watches her nervously. Will she lose control? Will she drink the man dry and leave them with nothing for the Immortan? Will she kill them too even though they are already drained half-lifes? To them she is every bit as strange and terrifying as the Immortan himself.

“Throw him in the back,” she orders.

She doesn’t need to wait for the analysis results to come back. She knows this is good blood; she can smell it through the man’s skin. The scent lingers even after her crew drags him to the back of the copter. It’s still in her nose or at least in her memory when the results comeback: O-, full-life, high octane. 

The man watches with wild eyes through mattes of hair and the bars of his cage as the wreckage of his vehicle is hitched to the copter. Then he turns his attention to Furiosa. He doesn’t speak, which is just as well. He’s enough of a distraction without words. He shakes the bars of his cage like an animal indignant about being contained. 

“Move out,” she calls as she climbs into the pilot’s seat of the copter. “I want to do another circle or two before nightfall. This one’s good, but he’s not enough.”

Her crew climbs into and on top of the copter without another word. They know that they will make up the shortage if too few Bloodbags come in to sustain the Immortan’s army. The three they’ve captured so far might be enough if the other teams do as well, but Furiosa doesn’t want to count on that. She hasn’t risen to Imperator by skirting by on just enough. 

She chugs some water in the hopes that it will calm her belly until feeding time. Instead it nauseates her. In all her life, she’s never quite accustomed herself to the strange feeling of hungering so deeply for one thing that her body threatens to purge itself of everything else. It’s like her body is afraid of not having enough room when she does finally get it. 

She doesn’t actually need full-life blood though, at least not in the way the War Boys do. As much as her stomach is telling her otherwise, she will not waste away for lack of it. It does, however, make her strong and fast and ruthless and all the other things that make her useful to the Immortan. Without it she would be Wretched, half-life at best and probably just another casualty of this dying world. 

She scans the landscape beneath her: dust as far as she can see around the shimmering salt of the Powder Lakes where they’d picked up the man. Evvery grain blends together, too many to distinguish, too many to count. The sky is clear blue, and the ground shifts from grey to rusty orange to sickly yellow where the Triumvirate have drained the wealth from the land.

The man bites his already split lip as he snarls, and blood blooms between the cracked, dry skin. Furiosa doubles over and then leans out the copter window first to clear the blood’s scent from her nose, then to empty the water from her belly. 

“Boss?” one of her crew asks.

“Just hungry,” she mutters wiping her mouth. 

It’s not usually this bad. The wild man in the back is a quality catch, best she’s seen, and this is just proof of it. He will go straight to the Immortan himself, and she and her crew will be well rewarded even if they catch no others. She just has to get them home.

“Oh…” This crewman is half-life like the others, trying to win favour and survive long enough to make War Boy. He will, she’ll see to it. 

“What’s your name?”

The crewman shrugs, and Furiosa flashes her teeth. “You sure are ace.” Then she lunges at him, and though his blood is thin and weak and hardly satiating, it will do for now.

### 

Furiosa delivers the wild man to the Immortan and showers her Ace with praise until the Immortan promotes him to War Boy himself. Then they all feast, Immortan on the wild man and Furiosa on a former favourite delicacy. Then, bloated and languid, she continues to her night duties in the Citadel treasure vault. 

It’s an easy enough job: make sure no War Boys smell their way to the Brides. The vault door is heavy enough and would be even if it weren’t made of silver. No Boys have ever found their way in. 

So Furiosa has no qualms about loosening her pants and dozing. It’s an inevitable result of her being full enough that the Brides pose no temptation. And the Immortan will never know the difference. 

“Why do you come here anyway?” asks the smallest of the Brides. She juts her chin over her folded arms.

“I do what I’m told.” Furiosa grumbles. Then she runs her tongue over her bloodstained lips. “Gotta earn my meals like everyone else.” 

Now the thinnest girl is on her way over. “What are you?” There is more curiosity than disgust in her voice, but both are there, each informing the other. “You aren’t like the other Imperators.”

“No, I’m not.”

The other Brides cluster around Furiosa and gawk some peering over each other’s shoulders, others staring openly. Each one looks markedly different from the others, each a perfect representative of her homeland: the young one with slick, dark hair from the northwest, the thin and pale one from the southeast, the short and dark one from the north, the the flame-haired one from the south. It’s like the whole bloody world is staring at her. 

A flicker of anxiety moves through Furiosa’s already too full belly. She looks away from the girls and their intrusive gazes, then covers her mouth with the crook of her arm so she can belch. Even that puff of air tastes like blood. She feels like a swollen tick, ready to burst.

“Are you alright?” asks the youngest girl. 

“I just ate too much,” Furiosa confesses. 

The youngest nods in sympathy, but the thinnest is on to her. “What exactly do you eat?”

Furiosa shrugs. “A little bit of everything.”

“Joe gets like this sometimes,” the girl with flame-coloured hair, reminds the others. “You can smell the blood in him. If you’re lucky he just rolls over and passes out…”

The thin one snickers, “All flaccid and stinking.”

“Do you eat blood like he does?” asks the short one.

“You smell like he does.” That was Favourite. She has been listening from the next room. Now she pulls up a chair beside Furiosa and sits with her knees spread to make room for her round belly.

Furiosa grits her teeth and pretends she doesn’t have skin these girls can crawl under. “What are you after?”

The short one shrugs. “We’ve noticed things, and we have questions, like why does he send you here even though the War Boys can’t open the door?”

The favourite folds her hands and smirks. “More importantly, why can you open it?”

That’s easy: Furiosa rubs her prosthetic fingers together. She’s not really touching the silver door; the girls are stupid not to notice that. But that isn’t what they are after.

The flame haired girl leans close. “You drink blood like he does; it stains your mouth and the stink of it seeps through your pores. Joe is the only blood drinker who can open the door, but even he can’t go out in the day like you can?”

“So again...” probes the thin one as the others press in around Furiosa. “What are you?” 

“Where’s Giddy? Ask her.” The truth is Furiosa has no word for what she is. She clearly isn’t War Boy or Triumvirate. She clearly isn’t human either like these girls or the other natives of her world. As far as she knows she is the only of her kind, at least until the Favourite gives birth. “She was there.”

The flame haired one sits on the floor with her legs crossed. “She says it’s yours to tell.”

Furiosa sighs and shifts in her chair. It’s not a secret exactly, not a thing no one is allowed to know; it’s just a thing Furiosa isn’t keen on discussing. She would rather Giddy tell them, rather the old woman answer all the young ones’ questions and leave Furiosa to nap in peace. But as she watches the Favourite with her great, round belly, she understands that their questions, the how, the what, the why, all have the same answer. 

More importantly, the sooner she tells them, the less time the Immortan’s plan has to work. If she tells them now, they will be repulsed, and she will aways stay strange to them. They will not slowly warm to her. They will not take her into their confidence and think of her as friend. They will not warm to the idea of birthing the Immortan’s offspring. 

Furiosa is not there as a guard; she’s there as a shining if somewhat broken example of the product of a union between human and Immortan. She is there to say wordlessly, So if your body aches; it is full of possibilities. So what if the child is born without this limb or that; it will be strong anyway. So what if the baby drinks you dry before you can see it; it will be…, and for the life of her, Furiosa can’t think of a single thing to make that better.

Why should there be another like her born in this world? The Favourite will surely die the way Furiosa’s own mother did. It’s not that Furiosa cares particularly for any of these girls, but she has spent so long following orders, going along with plans, all the while watching her world turn to dust. The truth is a small thing, a small sort of rebellion. But how can she find the words?

So Furiosa leans towards the Favourite with her flesh hand outstretched. She points at the swollen belly beneath a veil of fine white cloth. The Favourite purses her lips in understanding. 

—-

The girls are asleep, and Furiosa is restless. It might be that her dinner has settled and is beginning to change into something she can use. It might be that now her head is too full for sleep. She stretches in her chair and then stands. Starlight shines through the clear night and the glass dome of the vault. She stare upward at the stars that look not unlike salt crystals on a dark plate… _So many of them… one, two, three…_. Some are bright and distinct, others hazy and blended. _eighty-four, eighty-five…_ To which does the Triumvirate belongs? Of all the things her father told her, how he and his brothers crossed immeasurable distances to rule this world, he never once spoke of his home world. _Two hundred fifty-eight, two hundred fifty-nine…_

She hears soft footsteps on the stone floor and turns to see Giddy standing in the doorway. “So you told them.”

Furiosa shrugs. “More or less.”

“How did they take it?”

She shrugs again and entwines her long and short arm over her chest. “Didn’t seem surprised.” Furiosa figures the truth seeps through her skin. 

“They are fascinated by you, you know. They just aren’t any good at showing it.”

“Then they should know the whole truth.” What number was she on? _One, two, three…_

“That’s yours to tell them too.”

“You can tell them. Tell them how I killed my mother from the inside out.”

“Is that what he told you?”

Furiosa nods. “And I believe his version of things. Yours is too kind.”

“Well, if that’s what you want the girls to think, you’ll have to tell them yourself. I’ll only be telling them the truth.”

Furiosa touches her prosthetic hand to the glass. “What do you tell them of Before?”

“The same as I told you, that we were the masters of this place, for better or for worse. We were well on our way to ruining when the Triumvirate showed up.”

“Good. Three beings alone can’t destroy a world, not without help.” 

They showed up, spread their plague like smoke rising from a fire, and drained what little life remained; water, fuel, minerals, and blood: the bounty of an interstellar empire. So the armies of half-life War Boys, stuck between illness and immortality, keep the fire spreading, and a head of them goes the plague. Where it has been, people are too sick and desperate to fight; instead they make deals with the Imperators to work on the day crews and maybe one day become War Boys or Brides. 

“The same goes for saving it. I also tell them of people like your mother, people who were kind and wise and fearless.”

Furiosa says nothing. She just stares out at the glittering of starlight reflecting on the salt flats. How many days would it take to count every grain? Do the flakes of ground each count as one? 

Then there is a pounding at the door, and Furiosa must go to open it. No hungry War Boys await, only the Immortan himself, no doubt as restless with bloodrush as she is. He says nothing to her as he passes. He just strolls to the bedroom and plucks the girl of his choice from her bed. 

Furiosa returns to staring out into the night. She wishes her hearing wasn’t so good… or her sense of smell. She wishes she could just block everything out. _One, two, three, four, five…_

He’ll be gone soon, all of them will, she reminds herself. The Triumvirate has sucked just about all the life from this world. They’ll pack up and return to the stars to start up the whole process somewhere else. She wonders if they’ll take her with them. Or will they leave her behind as their legacy?

“I always thought vampires had to be invited in,” Miss Giddy grumbles. “Then you could retract the invitation at any time.”

Furiosa stays silent. Did her mother invite her in? Sometimes she thinks she might remember her mother’s voice and how it vibrated through her bones from the world outside. It’s ridiculous to think she could retain a memory from before she was born. It’s unnatural, wrong even, but there is much about Furiosa that shouldn’t be. The Triumvirate never should have come to Earth. They never should have bred with human women.

“My mother…” Furiosa starts, unsure of what she means to ask, “Was it like this?” She has always assumed it was.

“No, not at first.” Now Miss Giddy stares out at the stars. The stories pricked into her face blend with the lines etched by time. “She thought she loved him. We all did in the beginning. He showed us something, someone else. Now he doesn’t even pretend anymore.”

Furiosa grits her teeth: now he doesn't have to. He has a daughter who leads home Brides, makes them promises of luxory and grandeur. Sometimes she plucks them from the sand dunes. Sometimes she buys them with milk and produce. They would do the same if the circumstances were switched.

### 

The next morning, before the others are awake, before the sun is up, Furiosa finds the Favourite alone. She has a twist of thick wire in her hand, an instantly recognisable shape. Furiosa slinks through the shadows behind her as she climbs the stairs to the loft room. The Favourite lets the door swing shut behind her, but it never has a chance to close.

The loft room should overlook the vault, but it’s completely enclosed and thus is more like an attic or a closet. The Immortan likes to take the girls there, probably because for them it is entirely dark spare a sliver of dim light beneath the door. He can watch the fear spread on their faces. 

The Favourite’s face is tight with determination as she sets herself on the bed. She’s belly up, knees apart. The twist of wire glimmers silver, and Furiosa wonders if the Favourite thinks that might make a difference. She bites her quivering lips as she makes a path for the wire by touch alone.

“Stop!” Furiosa commands as she glides across the room. She closes the fingers of her prosthesis around the wire as she firmly presses her palm to the girl’s chest. “This won’t work.”

The Favourite jumps and gasps, then huddles. She curls in on herself and peers over her knees like a frightened animal as she spits, “What’s it to you?”

Furiosa glares at her sternly just in case the girl can see anything at all. “Can’t well have you dying on my watch.”

“I’m just…”

Furiosa presses just a little harder, still hardly making an effort, and pins the girl down. “Killing the baby?” She touches the silver wire to her own flesh and clinches her jaws against the singing sensation that follows. Her skin glows like hot coals on contact. “You’ll hurt it, weaken it… make it hungry. You won't kill it." She draws an X with the silver wire; it glows orange in the darkness like warm coals. Then that light too fades, and takes her pain with it.

“So how do I get rid of it?”

“I don’t know.” Furiosa releases the silver wire but keeps her flesh hand on the Favourite’s chest. 

“Then who does? Miss Giddy doesn’t know either. She said your mother knew how, but that she chose to keep you.”

Furiosa nods. “My mother’s people, that’s what they did, but those were ordinary babies, made by ordinary men.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“She died.”

The Favourite’s pulse quickens. The smell of fear on her skin intensifies. “Am I going to die too, Furiosa?”

“You might.”

“But your mother’s people, they could help me?” 

“Even if we could find them… I don’t know if anyone has tried this before.”

“But if we do find them, they will try.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” Then the Favourite sighs and Furiosa hears the clicking sound of her eyelids moving over overwhelming tears as saltwater clings to her lashes. “I want to at least try. If I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be here.”

Furiosa feels her own heart pounding faster than the Favourite’s which has found a certain resolve to its rhythm. What place could she possibly have with her mother’s people, if they still exist at all? She wants nothing more than to be free of the Immortan, the Triumvirate, and the Citadel, but if she had somewhere to go she would have already left. 

“Tell me more about your people, Furiosa.”

“They aren’t mine. I never met them.”

“I hate Joe even more for taking you from them.”

“I was born here.”

“But you don’t belong here. What was it like there?”

“It was green....”


	2. Chapter 2

“Stay still. Say nothing.”

The girls obey; they neither hum nor nod their agreement. They just stare at Furiosa with wide eyes and tight mouths from the shadows of the sleeping compartment.

“Good.” She runs her tongue over her lip as she closes the door, shutting out the last light of the afternoon. “See you in the morning.” 

Then Furiosa opens the bay door and drives the Rig onto the launch platform. The Citadel hangar looks behind like an open mouth. The sky is a deep shade of violet, darker above, paler about the edges, and vivid red behind the Citadel. She watches the red turn to magenta and then purple as she paints her face to blend in with the shadows. 

The paint is slick between her fingers. It glides over the bones of her skull. She takes this moment to try and find the calm inside herself. She's traced these bones a thousand times; she knows every crest and crevice. She's flown this Together a thousand times; she knows the humming of its engines, the whirring of its propellor blades. She's travelled this land a thousand times; she can read its rocks and dunes more easily than she can any book. Even so, Furiosa shivers in the stillness of twilight and waits for the arrival of her War Boy crew. 

Everything must seem normal. She’s already packed away the milk and produce they are charged with delivering. She’s snuck some extra fuel in as well which they were suppose to be picking up. She decides she’ll call it a leak if they smell it through the thick walls of the fuel pods. She’ll even check it herself. And what if they smell the human cargo? She’ll call them crazy, smack them upside their heads, or send them out to hunt in the wastes maybe, fly away when they are distracted. She runs her hand over the oblong fuel pod beneath the Rig’s right wing, leaving dark trails behind. It doesn’t feel any different.

The Boys clamour onto the Rig, their white skin starkly contrasting with the darkness of the hangar. For nocturnal creatures, they are certainly not sneaky. They throw themselves against each other, pound their chests and work themselves into a frenzy. It’s not hunger that maddens them; the bloodlust is always there, and they were fully fed the night before; that blood is now fuel in their tanks already igniting. It’s time to head out.

It used to be that these trade runs needed the War Boys for protection. Desperate wretches in significant numbers could disable a vehicle, especially with Furiosa alone and preoccupied with piloting it. They would hide behind rocks and shoot, first bullets then flaming arrows, then hot stones. Back then the day crews were small and assigned to other tasks. So War Boys were sent to guard the Rig, and they did look mighty gripping its wings as it flew. No wonder the wretched survivors came out to watch it soar by in the night. In the morning they would come to Furiosa with questions and promises, and she accepted only the best of them.

Now the trade runs serve the War Boys more than the other way around. Like a covered pot of boiling water, they need to let off steam. Like a fire beneath a blanket, they will burn out without fresh air and movement. 

The Boys let out a rowdy roar as the Rig takes off. Furiosa contains a smile and refuses to look back. 

### 

The first few hours pass uneventfully. The land is quiet and dark, no lights, no campfires. Furiosa taps the instrument panel restlessly as she scans for life forms – nothing of interest, nothing ahead or behind, to the east or to the west, just a few lonely shrubs in the dust, small mammals creeping between the rocks. 

The Rig should reach its first destination in two hours or so if they keep going straight. Now they are exactly at their furthest point from any member of the Triumvirate. The Immortan is watching her, or at least one of his minions is. She’s considered ripping the beacon from the instrument panel, but that would be noticed. No signal would be worse than letting the Immortan know the Rig’s position. At least that way she can lead him in circles and dump the Rig in the most inconvenient place she can find. 

The sensors pick-up something just to the east – looks human. One more appears, than another. They gather into a cluster and then move together, towards the Rig instead of away. Furiosa turns towards them without hesitation.

The War Boys look at each other in confusion. Then one, Furiosa’s Ace from before looks to her with calm, trusting interest. He doesn’t have to ask; she owes her co-pilot an explanation. 

“Just a detour,” she says then looks down at the life sensor until he follows her gaze. “Let’s burn off some steam.”

The first strike comes from the ground. It’s a simple stone, but it’s a good shot, well aimed and well targeted. It hits one of the Boys square in the face, knocking him back enough that he momentarily loses his grip on the Rig. He snarls and instead of reclaiming his hold, he launches himself off the Rig in the direction of the shot. 

“Go on,” she says to Ace. He looks at her inquisitively. “Look, I can tell when you all are too restless to be useful. Go have some fun.” 

Another few Boys have moved to the ground, not enough though; that would be too much to ask. Furiosa studies the life sensor and watches the indicators for the human flicker out. Still others join them, seemingly out of nowhere. Then her heart jumps – a War Boy indicator just disappeared. 

_Wham!_ The Rig jolts on impact. Furiosa instinctively increases her altitude so she can align the Rig’s lower guns.

“Turn back?” asks Ace. 

In ordinary circumstances it’s what they would do. The Rig obviously has the rebels outgunned, but that would waste valuable blood. It would just be the Rig throwing its weight around to show the Immortan’s might. No one questions that these days. 

Ace’s eyes follow hers to the screen and then up again. “Run them into our back up.?”

A flicker on the radar draws Furiosa’s eyes. It’s a small battler, clearly Citadel, traveling far faster than the Rig. A quick glance at the rear camera shows its audacious headlamp. Furiosa watches its War Boy pilots whooping as they fire on the rebels below. It is the first Citadel vehicle of many

“No, we fang it!” 

She sounds an alarm telling the Boys to fall back to the Rig p. The Boys frantically leap, circling their arms as the reach for handholds. Furiosa opens the throttle, lets the engine roar, and the Rig lurches forward as the transmission catches up, knocking a Boy free. He flails and hollers as he falls.

That leaves nine Boys on the Rig, three on the ground. Furiosa’s eyes glide over each of the weapons she’s hidden in her cockpit as she calculates how quickly and surreptitiously she can grab them. She still has an hour before sunrise, an hour to keep her lead. 

A jolt from the wings interrupts her thoughts, and the Rig tips towards the extra weight. A Boy is struggling to scramble aboard with a silver-clad rebel wrapped around his leg. The spikes of the rebel’s armour have torn through the Boy’s pants and into his flesh. His mouth is open in a haunting silent howl as the the rushing night air covers his voice. Then Furiosa turns her head and the Rig with it.

Neither Boy nor rebel falls. They are still locked in their death battle when Furiosa looks again. Now the rebel has a silver gauntlet wrapped around the Boy’s face. His skin glows like hot coals. He lets go of the Rig with one hand and snakes it into a gap in the rebel’s armour. His fingers glow orange as he pulls the silver mask away. Then he lunges for the rebel’s exposed throat, tearing it open with his teeth. Every Boy on the Rig not otherwise preoccupied cheers as both fall..

Furiosa’s heart jumps as she looks down at the radar again. As expected, the lone fighter is only the first of many. Even the Immortan himself has brought his Gigahorse out to play. She grits her teeth and accelerates further, pushing the Rig’s needle into the red. 

“Let us out!” a voice pleads over the intercom. 

“Not yet. Keep quiet,” Furiosa hisses. 

“But Dag’s getting sick.”

“You’re supposed to say over.”

“Fine, over.”

Furiosa tightens her mouth to hide her panic. “I need you quie-“

She swerves, narrowly avoiding a ruined structure. As she passes a rebel shoots a crossbow at her window. She swerves again so the bolt hits at an angle. An intricate network of cracks spreads on impact, but the glass holds. _One, two, three…_ , her gaze moves over them, following their jagged paths. Some trace circles like strands of a spider’s web. She tears her eyes away. 

The Immortan’s whole army is gaining on her. They are almost within shooting range, except for that one battler, which is zipping alongside. It alone doesn’t have the firepower to take the Rig down, but with careful aim it won’t have to. 

Furiosa needs altitude. She needs to be out of the shadows when dawn arrives. It’s close; there’s that certain damp, crispness to the air even though the sky overhead is still dark. If she could see the horizon, it would be tinged with gold. 

Up, up, up, away from the cluster of fighters and battlers forming beneath her, away from the tangle of spiky rebels. The Rig strains under the stress of its steep angle of attack. Furiosa grits her teeth and lowers her chin. 

The first rays of sunlight appear ahead, beaconing as they peak over the mountain range. They aren’t strong or close enough yet, but soon Furiosa’s path will cross theirs, and all will be washed in pure, brilliant sunlight.

The Boys have seen them too. They clamour for the hatch and pound, demanding to be let into their sleeping hold. Furiosa pretends not to notice.

Ace shakes her first by the shoulders. “Why can’t you stop? Why can’t you stop?” Over and over again he asks, his voice shifting from demand to desperation.

Furiosa growls at the War Boy she ordered made, the Wretched man who bled for her on the powdered lakes. Then she pulls a stake she’s hidden and stabs him hard and fast in the cheek. His flesh parts like brittle paper. She draws back her stake and braces herself against the cockpit floor. With a smooth, single motion, she shoves him through her side window. 

Time might as well have stopped. Even the shards of glass fall slowly, glimmering in the first, cold light of dawn. The Boys fall too as their fingers singe and boil, and split leaving nothing but ash and bone. Their mouths open in silent screams as the light streams in, and they burn from the inside as well as the out.


End file.
